'Twas the happiest while o' th' ould curmudgeon's life,
I do b'lieve; for he'd found summat he cudn' tame in a hurry.
There was a noble pond afore the house, i' those days, wi' urns an'
heathen gods around the brim, an' twice he dragged her through it in
her night-gown, I've heerd, an' always dined wi' a pistol laid by his
plate, alongside the knives an' prongs, to scare her. But not she!
"An' next he tried to burn her in her bed: an' that wasn' no good.
"An' last of all he fell i' love wi' her: an' that broke her."
"One day--the tale goes--she made up her mind an' ordered a shay an'
pair from the Pack-Horse. The postillion was to be waitin' by the
gate o' the deer-park--the only gate that hadn't a lodge to it--at
ten o'clock that night. 'Twas past nine afore dinner was done, an'
she got up from her end o' the table an' walked across to kiss th'
ould fellow. He, 'pon his side, smiled on her, pleased as Punch; for
'twas little inore'n a fortni't since he'd discovered she was the
yapple of his eye. She said 'Good night' an' went up-stairs to pack
a few things in a bag, he openin' the door and shuttin' it upon her.
Then he outs wi' his watch, waits a couple o' minutes, an' slips out
o' the house.
"At five minutes to ten comes my ladyship, glidin' over the short
turf o' the deer-park, an' glancin' over her shoulder at the
light in his lordship's libery window. 'Twas burnin' in true
watch-an'-fear-nothin' style, an' there, by the gate, was the shay
and horses, and postillion, wrapped up and flapping his arms for
warmth, who touched his cap and put down the steps for her.
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